Harry Potter and the Boy Who Died
by Aithne
Summary: After six years of failing, Voldemort has discovered Harry's one true weakness...and he is confident it will lead to Harry's self destruction. Harry, vengeful and determined, will accept nothing but victory. Victory, however, does not come without a price


**Harry Potter and the Boy Who Died**

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. sniff

A/N: This is the first piece of writing I have done in over a year…I'm sorry to all of my loyal readers. College is quite the time-consumer! I will keep up with this story the best I can…I miss writing too much to stay away for too long. Be warned: it's going to be a long one! Spoilers of HBP will also ensue. Enjoy!

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**Chapter One: The Cobweb Cottage**

It was far past midnight in the town of Little Hangleton. All respectable residents were asleep, their lights extinguished and houses silent. A few cats prowled the streets searching for a late night snack, and there were, of course, a few children wide awake in their bedrooms, intentionally disobeying their parents' adamant demands for a decent bedtime. While it was a small town, it was not without incident. In recent months, many residents of Little Hangleton began to notice a fire burning in the abandoned house far up the winding path. It had been uninhabited for as long as most of the Hangletonians could remember, and the place had become so decrepit it was known to the townspeople as the "Cobweb Cottage."

Overgrown with ivy, weeds, and rodents, it had become the favorite pastime of some teenage troublemakers to wander into the house, searching for valuables and destroying anything they considered to be worthless. The left end of the Cobweb Cottage had been set aflame some years ago, due to the after-dark musings of unbeknownst adolescents. Most of Little Hangleton's residents, however, ignored the house altogether, busying themselves with their own lives in their small, friendly village.

This is why the Cobweb Cottage's history had been forgotten entirely.

No one remembered it had once been the house of the Gaunt family.

And tonight, aside from the substantial fire burning in the moldy fireplace, the house appeared as it had for decades before – dusty, frail, and neglected. However, if one listened closely at the broken window that led into what was once the living room, one knew that it was far from abandoned. And inside this small, decaying abode resided two men. One sat in an overstuffed, moth-eaten purple armchair, while the other knelt in front of him, his black cloak surrounding him, his stringy, grease-filled hair obscuring his face.

"I am thoroughly impressed, Severus. _Thoroughly_ impressed."

Snape bowed his head in veneration and humble gratitude as he knelt on the dirt-strewn floor. "Thank you, my Lord."

"I have tested your servitude beyond what I thought you were capable of, and I have been pleasantly surprised. You have done what none of my other followers were capable of, and for that, you shall be rewarded."

His head still bowed, Snape once again, replied a quiet, "Thank you."

"Rise, Severus."

Snape stood, his head still bent so that his expression was unreadable. His dark cloak swirled around him, making his small, thin frame appear more substantial than it ever had been.

"You know, as well as I do, that our job is far from over. While we have disposed of the shepherd, the flock still remains. And, of course, a new leader will emerge…I think we both know who that will be."

Voldemort paused, and the only sound in the room was the snake-like breathing of the Dark Lord himself. Snape raised his head slightly, so that his dark eyes met the scarlet ones that seemed to penetrate his thoughts. "Harry Potter."

"Yes," hissed Voldemort, seemingly pleased with the answer. "Potter has lasted longer than I could have ever imagined. He has confirmed himself to be worthy of my attention after all."

He paused, and Snape lowered his eyes once more to stare at the dirty floor beneath his feet. After a few moments of heavy silence, Voldemort continued, and Snape noted a contemplative eagerness in the Dark Lord's voice. "But Dumbledore's death has shaken him. He realizes that those around him are all dying at his expense. He will soon feel the complete toll of losing both his godfather and his faithful Headmaster…and that is when we will strike."

Snape kept his eyes averted and his tone even. "Strike, my Lord?"

"Yes," the other concurred. "We must be cautious, because our overconfidence has been our weakness in the past. But we will play off of Potter's guilt for as long as we are able…"

Voldemort stood from the violet, disintegrating chair he was sitting in, and began to pace. His long limbs allowed him to glide evenly across the infirm room, giving Snape the impression that the Dark Lord was floating across the floor, rather than walking. His scarlet eyes twinkled as he rubbed his insipid chin, frowning slightly. Snape knew better than to interrupt the Dark Lord when he was thinking, so he fastened his eyes on the floor and patiently waited, allowing his thoughts to reemerge.

_Strike? _Snape frowned ever so slightly. _Strike…but at what? Potter was back at the Dursley's, Hogwarts was not in session, all of the Aurors had been recalled, and Dumbledore was already dead – _

Snape's chest unexpectedly tightened at the thought, forcing him to inhale sharply. Silently cursing himself for allowing his emotions to betray him, Snape braced himself for the worst. The Dark Lord undoubtedly noticed it–

"Is something troubling you, Severus?"

Gritting his teeth and setting his jaw, a swirl of excuses, lies, and leftover emotion from the previous swirled through his mind. They combined to form a blinding conglomerate of confusion, leaving him unable to utter a single, intelligent word. Although he made a point to keep his gaze elsewhere, Snape could feel the piercing stare of those ruby eyes, and Snape knew there would be no way to lie to him…

"Yes, my Lord. It's just –" Unable to think of a response, Snape cut himself off mid-sentence.

The silence was deafening. Panic rising in his throat like acid, Snape knew the only way to avoid Voldemort's talent at legilimency was to speak…and fast.

"It's just that striking at Potter might not be the wisest move at this time, my Lord." The excuse came fast and hard, and Snape knew it would offend the Dark Lord. His head began to throb, his stomach unexpectedly churning.

"Why is that, Severus?" To Snape's dismay, the response was cold and hard.

Without risking a glance upwards, Snape responded. "Because…because we have destroyed the two men Potter looked up to. His life is uncertain now, and he feels he has nothing to lose. He will come looking for you, my Lord…he seeks vengeance."

"And you feel that he no longer cares for his own life?"

Snape considered the question for a moment before responding. "I believe that he feels obligated to sacrifice himself for the sake of others…his "hero complex" he is well-known for. He does not want to be responsible for any more deaths…and he will go to great lengths to prevent them." Snape looked up to find Voldemort staring intently at him, his long, thin hands clasped behind his back.

The pause seemed to last for years.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord approached Snape, stopping only a foot from where the smaller man stood. His muscles tight and his jaw clenched, Snape waited for the reprimand, for the revocation of Voldemort's earlier praises, for the pain of punishment…

But none came.

"I think you are right…very right."

Unwilling to believe his ears, Snape looked up at Voldemort, unable to hide the astonishment etched across his pallid face. "My Lord?" he croaked.

"I believe you are correct, Severus. Potter has become confident yet guilt-ridden. He feels personally responsible for the deaths of Black and Dumbledore, yet he seeks revenge. He now considers his life to be secondary to those of his friends'." The Dark Lord chuckled, a dry, rumbling laugh that sent chills up Snape's spine. His thin lips twisted into a sly curl as he reveled in his thoughts. "Yes…his loyalty to his friends will be his ruin."

Snape knew where this was going, but he was unable to speak. His chest vibrating with the beating of his heart, his mind swimming with sensation, he let none of it show as he calmly bowed slightly once more, asking, "How may I be of service?"

"First," the Dark Lord began, turning from Snape and repositioning himself in the decomposed armchair once more, "you will tell me the names of all of Harry Potter's closest friends."

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_To Be Continued_


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